


And, God, I really want you to stay

by GrantaireandHisBottle



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: M/M, Smoking, the fist meeting, walking around the night Paris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:39:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrantaireandHisBottle/pseuds/GrantaireandHisBottle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You must be gorgeous in the darkest hours of the night. With the voice like yours many terrible things can be done.” Slowly he turns on his heels and looks at Enjolras’s ember eyes for some long moments. Then smiles.</p><p>Enjolras unconsciously steps backwards. Something is wrong with that smile. And eyes. Oh, God, those eyes are evil, bottomless, darkly beautiful and …sad? Melancholic, maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And, God, I really want you to stay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ibbyliv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/gifts).



> I was so alone today, so I desided to write. Silly, without any plot and with mistakes. I am sorry((
> 
> The name of the story is the song by Kyla la Grange "Heavy stone".
> 
> For my dearest Jehan.

Enjolras can’t remember when Combeferre left the apartment. He can’t recall where Courfeyrac went. He didn’t listen them, he was lost in his essay and books. They did say something. Courfeyrac was annoying as hell, overexcited and in a bowtie. Maybe he is having a date. Another one. 

Enjolras looks around the empty room. Outside is dark already, though he hasn’t notice that earlier. The only source of the light in the room is the monitor of his laptop. Enjolras suddenly sees a cup of tea, standing near his notes. He carefully touches the mug and feels that it is cold already. Combeferre must have left it before leaving. 

Enjolras stands up, the mug with the French tricolor in his left hand. The essay went very good and he finished it even earlier then he thought. But he feels himself a bit lost right now. This problem happens quiet frequently when the blond student works on the project or speech. All his energy and attention is given to the task, which means he can spare his time only on drinking coffee. That’s all.

_“Enjy, pass me my phone, it is lying near your laptop. On your left, if you ple-ease.” Courfeyrac yawned, lying on the sofa. “Enjy?” the dark haired student frowned and turned himself on the sofa. “Enjolras. ENJY!!!” the pillow flew fast and jerkily collided with the golden haired head. But there was no result. “Oh, fuck your nirvana, man!” Courfeyrac stood up, made three steps and grabbed his phone, trying to make as much noise as possible. Enjolras continued typing with a serious face. Courfeyrac rolled eyes and went away, singing "Wrecking ball"._

He sighs and walks to the window, sipping his cold tea. Enjolras likes to work in silence. He can’t understand how it is possible to think while there is music in your ears, screaming loudly. But when he finishes, he hates to be alone. He needs to discuss and debate with somebody, because his head is too small to keep all the ideas. Cold tea tastes awfully bitter. The neighbors from the flat above play a sad melody on the piano and that really doesn’t help in the current situation.

The passing cars through their lights into the air and for some moments they run across Enjolras’s thin body up to his face. He stands in the darkness of the room with a cup of cold tea, watching the street out of their window. 

Suddenly he remembers that Combeferre is in the hospital together with Joly. He carefully opens the window and inhales the evening air. It tastes differently. Just like tea. There is a big difference between the morning and the evening tea. A minute later Enjolras closes the window, realizing that he is shaking from cold. The cool autumn air doesn’t fit his red t-shirt. Or maybe his t-shirt doesn’t fit the weather. 

Enjolras silently rolls his eyes, realizing that he is thinking nonsense. Maybe he needs to have a walk, to breathe some air. He will think about the plan for their future project about unemployment, while he will walk. 

Jeans, red t-shirt, grey cardigan, dark blue coat, creamy scarf and leather gloves and red Converse. Enjolras hums, feeling himself safer some why. He grabs his keys and mobile, locks the door to their apartment and walks down the stairs.

Street lamps give soft scents to the evening. People’s chats and laughs create a voice of the evening. Enjolras crosses the road, when he smells pasta and red wine. He tries to concentrate on a brainstorm in his head. The street performances play and sing Frank Sinatra’s song “L-O-V-E”. Golden haired Enjolras is walking quickly. Political debate in his head slowly changes a subject. He suddenly feels himself so lonely, that it becomes unbearably. He swallows the cold air desperately several times. Then he calms down. A bit.

Maybe an idea of having a walk in the evening, on the Saturday evening to be precise, in Paris wasn’t a very good idea after all. Enjolras is surrounded by people from different countries, speaking on different languages. And in the middle of that crowd he hates himself. Hates, because of the crowd and the fact, which he doesn’t want to admit. He is alone and that makes him sad. There are too many people on the street. There are too many eyes to meet. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” he presses an index finger and a thumb to his nose bridge, when a couple starts dancing can-can and singing a song from the _Moulin Rouge!_ movie in front of the restaurant, cheered by their friends, who have begun filming that.

He walks for another fifteen minutes, maybe more. This time he has been thinking about their project rather successfully. And once he glances around, he sighs heavily again. Walking around the city on the autopilot is definitely not a good thing.

He tiredly and rather hopelessly glances around only to understand that he is standing on the bridge across the Seine. But his further observations and deductions suddenly has been interrupted by the sight of a person. A figure of the man, who is standing on the bridge railing. Enjolras freezes, his mind racing. He opens his mouth, not really sure what to say.

“Don’t jump. Please.”

He twists his lips as he hears his own hoarse voice.

The man, balancing on the railing, answers, his own voice even more hoarse then Enjolras’s. Maybe he has been ill for some time. “Nah, I am not going to jump. The Seine is calm here, so I won’t die. Only become wet and cold…Then maybe I’ll die from flu.” He says that so calm, making some steps.

Enjolras is watching his movements with annoyance and fear. “Are you drunk or something, climb down!”

The dark haired man shrugs, not turning his head to face Enjolras. He carefully makes another step, smiling widely to himself. “You have a beautiful voice.”

Enjolras sighs and approaches him uncertainly. “If you fall, I will be forced to tell the police that it was not my fault.”

The curly haired man chuckles. “Yup. And then my lonely soul or spirit, trapped down here, on Earth, will visit you during the darkest hours of the night and tell you about the revenge and guilt and betrayal.” 

“That was Hamlet, I presume?” Enjolras looks at the figure of a stranger. “For Christ’s sake, climb down from there!”

“You must be gorgeous in the darkest hours of the night. With the voice like yours many terrible things can be done.” Slowly he turns on his heels and looks at Enjolras’s ember eyes for some long moments. Then smiles.

Enjolras unconsciously steps backwards. Something is wrong with that smile. And eyes. Oh, God, those eyes are evil, bottomless, darkly beautiful and …sad? Melancholic, maybe.

The stranger jumps down, still smiling. “Standing there felt better then the liter of whiskey. It gives more adrenalin then the alcohol.” He reaches out his hand to shake Enjolras’s. “Almost dying changing nothing. That’s why almost jumping changed nothing. Grantaire.” Enjolras touches the warm hand of the man. 

“Enjolras.” He answers, feeling the coldness of his own fingers.

Grantaire smiles again. There is a piercing on his lower lip. “En-jol-ras.” He tastes the name on the tip of his tongue, still holding Enjolras’s palm. “Apollo suits better.” He drops Enjolras hand suddenly.

“Apollo. Never say that nickname again. It’s ridiculous and silly.” Enjolras protests as they start walking across the river.

Grantaire shrugs. His leather jacket can’t protect from the cold, but some why his hands are warm. “It suits you, o fearless leader.”

Enjolras hides his hands in pockets, feeling that he is annoyed and intrigued. A bit. “A leader?”

“Your voice. I was going to jump. You stopped me.”

Enjolras skips one step and almost fall. Grantaire’s hands grab his shoulders, but they both slip and end up on the pavement in a mess of limps. Second later Grantaire starts giggling. 

“Oh, shut up at last.” Enjolras untangles their legs and sits near. The steps are cold. On Grantaire’s neck, just under his left ear, there is a small tattooed “R”. 

Grantaire smiles and this time the smile lightens his eyes a bit. “You are graciously funny, Apollo.” He chuckles again, patting Enjolras’s shoulder. “Especially when you are angry.”

Enjolras reminds serious, watching the man, sitting near him. What is he even doing in the middle of the evening with a suicidal stranger? “Why did you want to jump?”

Grantaire’s lips become still, shaped in the form of the smile and he looks away. “I don’t know. It just… life happens, I guess.” 

That makes Enjolras angry. “You could fight for better future instead of giving up so easily.” 

The dark blue eyes sink into the ember one. “Why do you think it has been easy?” 

Enjolras tries to glances away from those eyes. After all he has no right to blame him. He feels strange. 

“Come on.” Grantaire’s voice becomes enthusiastic all at once. He jumps on his feet and grabs Enjolras’s right hand. “Come on, Apollooo!! Stand up, quickly!”

“What…What are you doing?!”

The next moment Grantaire is running fast, dragging Enjolras with him. They knock people and jump over the chairs of the cafes, Grantaire is laughing and drinking the cool night air, holding Enjolras’s hand. And some why Enjolras laughs too. His cheeks are red from the run and wind, but they keep moving.

“Shout something loudly! On the very high of your lungs, Apollo!”

“No!”

“Come on! AAAPOOOLLOOOO!!!” Grantaire’s hoarse voice roars across the small square, they have been running through. Pigeons fly away quickly. 

“Shut up, are you insane?!”

“You will feel ways better, trust me! Cry out!”

“No, I won’t! Why are we even running?!”

Grantaire is running and his eyes are laughing. And Enjolras doesn’t understand him at all. Or maybe he does understand. He has a strange memory or a lost feeling in his head that he has met R before. They run and run.

“VIVE LA FRAAANCEE!!!” he suddenly shouts.

Dark haired Grantaire whistles playfully. “YEAH, VIVE LA FRANCE! VIVA LA WISKEY!!”

A window opens and a middle aged man shouts at them, using an old, difficult for understanding dialect, when he has said where Enjolras and Grantaire have to go in such an ungodly hours.

They finally stop, breathing heavily, still holding hands. Grantaire first looks down at their palms and sighs. “Sorry.” he releases Enjolras’s hand.

The leader of the Politic activist group feels the rapid contrast between the cold air and warm hand of R. “Who are you, Grantaire?”

The muscles under the leather jacket tighten. “You don’t want to know, believe me.” His head slowly falls on his chest. “I don’t want you to know. You will feel disgust and leave.” His smile becomes mad and wild. “Don’t spoil this evening, please.”

Enjolras only now notices that he hasn’t paid attention to the people around them, to the whole world around them. That feels perfectly alright now.

Grantaire walks to the bench and collapses on it, fishing a box of cigarettes from his jeans pocket. His long, thin fingers carefully lights up one, making his eyes visible for a second. They are melancholic again. The smoke and the smell oddly fit Grantaire.

The golden haired student makes a step and sits near another man. “Come to our meeting in the café Musain.”

“Once again, Apollo, you will be disappointed in me, because I don’t believe in Vive la France and other stuff.”

Enjolras inhales the smoke from the cigarette in the left hand. 

“Come anyway.”

“Ah, that’s more interesting.” Grantaire inhales deeply the remains of the smoke. “Do you want to try smoking? I promise you won’t have cancer from one cigarette. Besides I won’t allow you to smoke much.”

Enjolras’s eyebrows go up as he watches Grantaire, pulling a new cigarette and lighting it up. On his wrist there is a bracelet, made of leather strips and metal circles. 

Enjolras sighs and pulls his hand to reach for the cigarette, but pauses as Grantaire inhales smoke again. And then without any warnings he leans closer and invades the personal space of Enjolras, letting the smoke from the cigarette run across his red lips, conquer the way to his tongue. It can’t be called a kiss, well, Enjolras can’t decide whether it is a kiss or not. The smoke makes him choke, but the lips on his own support him and he is not sure in anything. Then lips become colder somehow, like if they have drunk some fresh air to cool off the fire inside Enjolras’s mouth. This time Grantaire slowly kisses Enjolras. Someone’s lips are trembling. Enjolras. Or Grantaire’s. Or maybe both. 

The cigarette is thrown away, forgotten. Grantaire opens his eyes. “You are so beautiful, Enjolras.”

Enjolras himself is so lost and even more broken then he has been, when he has left his apartment. The stranger in front of him, the stranger kissing him, the possible cynic and non-believer, the stranger, who has managed to make him feel better and less lonely. 

“Forgive me, I…uhm, I don’t know, it just happened…Because you are so freaking amazing.” it costs Grantaire efforts to sound calm.

Enjolras simply watches Grantaire. Listens his voice and thinks. About all the time they had. Never had. Will have. He is lost. Grantaire supposes to be a stranger, but he doesn’t.

“Will you come to our meeting? With me? For me?” his voice is betraying him.

“For you…Always.” He chuckles once again. He leans to kiss Enjolras again, but then suddenly stops. “Will you permit it?”

Enjolras smiles. Their noses touch each other and they laugh, like silly teenagers. Enjolras’s hands are lost in the dark curls. “You know what?” he breathes into Grantaire’s ear, making him shiver. “You are even more beautiful.”

Grantaire laughs and his cheeks become scarlet, because no one ever says that to him. Not in this way. Not that caring and lovely, strange and soft. 

 

_Bitten by the wind on a hard hard day,_  
 _and god I really want you to stay._  
 _Bitting by tears and a burning fear,_  
 _that has smeared us both on the table._  
 _There are too many people in this street,_  
 _there are too many eyes to meet._


End file.
